


Letting Magic Dictate the Doing is Foolish (AKA: Where has wizarding common sense gone?)

by atsuyuri_sama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied Canon-Typical Abuse, Loss of Autonomy, Manipulative Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atsuyuri_sama/pseuds/atsuyuri_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petunia Dursley wasn’t a mean woman; she’d grown out of childish pettiness around the same as Lily’d grown comfortable with Potter. She just wanted to do what was right by her family – her /whole/ family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Magic Dictate the Doing is Foolish (AKA: Where has wizarding common sense gone?)

**Author's Note:**

> Brief disclaimer – the final paragraph comes directly from HPSS/PS, and is not mine in any way, shape, or form. Also, once again great thanks and affection go to [shapeshifter-ari](http://shapeshifter-ari.tumblr.com/), my incredible beta!

On November first, 1981, shortly after lunch, a firm knock on the door caught one Petunia Dursley off guard. Frowning in confusion, she glanced at the still, small form of her son – splayed spread-eagled on his blanket, snoring the same intermittent, buzz-saw theme as his father – in motherly reflex. The house had been relatively silent before the interruption, and the knock might have sounded rather startling to young ears.

She was grateful that the noise hadn’t woken Dudley from his afternoon nap; a tired Dudley was a cranky and annoying little boy, no matter how much she adored her son. Satisfied that the status-quo remained undisturbed, she slipped out of the room, intent on reaching the door before the mysterious visitor could be convinced to knock again.

The sight of a half-familiar, willowy old man, white hair and beard almost impossibly long, was confusing. His posture – leaning on his cane, and face drawn and serious – as well as the bundle cradled carefully in the crook of his free arm (which she instantly recognized as an infant), made her feel the first ticklings of unease. When she finally registered the way he was dressed – a suit reminiscent of fashions from the early 30s, and, more strangely for that, made of eye-searing plum velvet – and the way the edges of him were unnaturally blurred, such that her eyes almost wanted to avoid him entirely, her stomach dropped in fear.

This man was a wizard.

Normally, Petunia didn’t fear magical folk over-much; it was hard to when the only magical person one _really_ knew was Lily Potter nee Evans. But there was a war going on, in the magical world, as Petunia knew from mild contact with Lily. It was a war against Muggles.

Lily _knew_ how much a wizard or witch being seen with a Muggle would endanger that Muggle, right now; thus the younger had gone out of her way to keep magic from touching the elder’s life, especially after what happened to their parents. The short letters between them came by way of the normal post, and the messages were about her nephew, little Harry; Lily’s domestic life with her husband, away from family; Lily’s efforts at homemaking and busywork – almost painfully innocuous, ‘normal’ things.

So Petunia staggered backwards, all of the facts dropping together to make one horrifying picture: Something was wrong with Lily.

Something was wrong, there was a war, and a strange man (strange _wizard)_ – with a _child_ – was on her doorstep. She didn’t realize she was shaking, nor that she was begging him, quietly, desperately, “Not Lily. Please, not Lily. Nothing has happened; it _hasn’t._ Please not my sister.”

He grimaced at her words, blue eyes darkening in grief. Gently, he set the bundle in his arms down – on her table? Was he _mad?!_ Did he _want_ to risk the infant rolling off and falling to the floor?! – and gripped her shoulders. She shrugged away from him and leaned over to gather the child into her arms. They still shook, and tiny fussing noises issued from the almost too-big form tucked into the newborn-swaddling blanket, but the warm weight, and soft smell, of the one-year-old made her feel more grounded.

She rocked softly, and tried to breathe through a tight chest, see through blurred eyes. She _needed_ to see the child, and did not _dare_ see the child, all at once. None of this should be happening (unless something had happened to Lily, forcing her to give her son to Petunia), and the infant would be proof undeniable of it. A wizened hand took her choice away as it entered her vision and moved the mussed blanket away, revealing a tiny face.

A familiar face.

James’ hair, and James’ chin. Lily’s cheeks, and Lily’s eyes. Big ears, a flatly-tiny nose, and a vividly angry-looking slice reddening the pale skin of his forehead. The same face, blotchy and teary-eyed now to the healthy and laughing face in her photo album, but still the same face.

Harry, her nephew.

Lily was just as besotted with her boy as Petunia was with Dudley. Lily wouldn’t willingly give Harry to _anyone_ to give to Petunia – would not even give him to Petunia _herself_ – unless it was no longer an option. And if she was alive, Petunia knew she would fight like a wildcat to see that she _had_ that option. She’d taken the boy with her into _hiding,_ for Pete’s sake!

The grim, burdened gaze of that half-familiar old man spoke stories, without his even having opened his mouth. Petunia gasped, and bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood; she would scare Dudley (and now Harry, too, oh God) if she began to wail like she wanted. Slowly, as though all of his years had finally caught up to him – for Petunia recalled him now, the spry and delightful old Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore… the same wizard who had so gently, but so firmly, denied her childhood wish to join her sister, coming face-to-face with the Muggle after half a dozen letters, at long last – the old man settled into a chair of his own.

Hands steepled in front of his face, he sighed, “Miss Petunia Evans, now Missus Dursley. How I dearly wish we had not met for a second time in such grave circumstances as these. It is my deepest regret, and with greatest sorrow, that I must inform you that, late last night, your sister and her husband were murdered.”

Petunia breathed deeply, as shock finally did some good and kept her at arms-length from the news, allowing her to hear it without collapsing. She nodded slowly, and pulled back her shoulders, as though tightening her posture would help her fight grief.

“When that murderer – that darkest of Dark Wizards, Lord Voldemort – tried to do the same to your nephew… I have no explanations, madam. Young Harry has survived a spell which has never _not_ killed, and even so with naught to show but that injury on his forehead. Voldemort has died, or fled, made powerless by his own failed attempt.”

They both took a moment to stare down at the incriminating, blotchy-red evidence on soft skin. The Headmaster seemed miles away, lines and years etched into his drooping expression. Petunia, however, was feeling her inner-mother rise: that injury didn’t look well. Before she could say so, though, he continued in a heavy voice, and she couldn’t find it in herself to interrupt this powerful (and yet powerless) man.

“It is my belief that Voldemort is merely in hiding, and will one-day return. Even if this is proved false, I _know_ that his followers’ sights, at least, will be set on your nephew, for thwarting their Master so thoroughly, and so publically,” Petunia stiffened, suddenly very invested in what the old wizard was saying, “Young Harry’s life will be dangerous, regardless of how this all plays out, months and years from now… unless he has protection.”

“It is clear, Headmaster, that you want _me_ to be that protection; why else bring him here, and explain this to me?” Petunia finally found her voice. Dubiously, she pressed, growing almost acidly incensed by the end, “But what can _I_ do that you and yours could not, seeing as I have no—have _no_ _magic?_ ”

“Lily died protecting Harry.”

Petunia flinched. She could see it in her mind’s eye, as both a mother and a sister. Watching Lily spread herself protectively over her child, staring inevitable death in the face with their father’s own unforgettable green eyes…. Yes, Petunia could see it clearly.

“It is my belief that this sacrifice is what kept the death spell from working.”

For a moment, Petunia could believe it, too. Even in the Muggle world, the ‘Power of Love’ was well-touted. Then she paused, uncertain. People were _dying,_ and were often Muggles, or those Muggle- or half-born. Death fell especially on those who couldn’t defend themselves. That would include children, certainly.

If this ‘power of love’ was truly so great, why had it not worked on… well, any of the _other_ children whose parents who had **_doubtlessly_** been driven to the same end? Because there was no way Lily had been the _only_ parent in the _whole_ span of this war to give her life in protection of her child. Petunia would eat her own wedding ring if it were so.

Seeing her doubt, the man clarified, “James died protecting Lily and Harry, true. This did nothing, however, because a sacrifice like that – though noble – is instinctual. There is nothing to set it apart from, say, sneezing, because magic needs deliberate intent to function. But Lily…. Voldemort swore to spare your sister – I have seen a man’s untampered memories of that promise, and though an unspeakably evil man, Voldemort does as all wizards do, and keeps his word. I believe that he gave Lily the _choice_ to live, should she simply watch Harry’s death and do nothing. _Choices_ like that are rare – murders don’t stop what they’re doing to spare witnesses, even as they kill their targets. And a choice like that allows thought, and intent to fill an action.

“It is this which made her act worthy of _True Love’s Sacrifice,_ which made it powerful enough to stop an unstoppable spell. It was her _choice_ to die which allowed Harry to live, and which places power unimaginable in his veins… _as long as he lives with, and is cared for by, her blood._ Do you understand now, madam? Do you see what I am asking you to do?”

“Again, Headmaster Dumbledore,” she stressed, “What can _I_ do about it?”

“Simply take the boy in, Petunia. You are of Lily’s blood, and that is well and good enough on its own. As long as the boy calls your home his, it will protect and hide him from those outside who wish him harm. Will you take him in, and see that he is kept here and safe, for as long as he is young and untrained?”

Really, it was Lily’s boy; she _loved_ Lily, and had never stopped. There was no other answer, even with this frightening addition to the news of murder and killers and revenge. Whether he was in danger or not, she’d have taken her nephew in. “Of course.”

Albus nodded slowly, and stood as though his every joint were made of creaking wood. His motions of departure reminded her of the injury on her nephew’s face, and she glanced down at it worriedly. “Wait!”

The wizard paused, blue eyes intent on her over his half-moon glasses.

“The—This wound,” she stuttered, uncertainly, waving loosely at Harry’s forehead. “It looks… infected, a bit. I’m no witch – again – so what am I supposed to do about it? Do you have potions, or some such, you could leave with me? Or do I treat it like—like normal?”

He blinked, and for the first time in the visit, looked something other than drawn and tired: he looked startled. His eyes swept over the mark in question, lingering on the redness and obvious irritation, and his brows drew together in concern.

“You’re right; I hadn’t noticed. Infections are not exactly common, in our world; I’d forgotten to look for the signs,” he admitted softly. “All the magic Madame Pomphrey tried last night, once we got him, slid off of it like water. We assumed the wound would simply close on its own; since it was so resistant to anything we had, we assumed it would be resistant to everything else, as well.”

“You _what?_ You… do realize that infections in untreated wounds can kill _adults_ , don’t you? What in the world did you think it would do to a child, let alone one as young as my nephew? Did you at least clean it with soap and water?!”

The sheepish look on his face told Petunia all she needed to know. Even in their correspondences, she had seen hints of Lily forgetting small things like this too, as though magic was slowly becoming the go-to for her sibling. For the first time, Petunia found herself a bit relieved that she hadn’t, after all, been born magical, also. If magic (slowly or otherwise) removed all common sense – trying something by hand if magic doesn’t work, for example, or simply enjoying work _done_ by hand – perhaps she was better off for its lack.

Irritated, and with sorrow yet-undealt-with sitting heavy and painful in her chest, Petunia firmly ushered the wizard out of her home. She had accepted Harry – and convincing Vernon it was the right thing to do would not be especially hard, as he, too, understood that, normal or not, family needed to stick together – so the magic protections would hold. Now he was her responsibility, and her first duty was to ensure that negligence borne of ignorance would not kill the boy where malice and magic had failed.

… The alcohol wipe on his wound, though necessary, roused Harry to a screaming fit. This, in turn, woke Dudley, who screamed even louder when – for the first time – his terror-cries didn’t result in his Mummy’s immediate arrival. Surrounded, alone, by two small, fussy boys, Petunia felt her heart sink and her head begin to pound. She rushed around, desperately trying to find an equilibrium in this new arrangement.

It would be hard, she knew, and there would be times when she would regret taking Harry in (or even resent Lily for dying, when the stress got bad enough), because that was human nature. People thought or wished stupid things when they were overwhelmed. But she was a mother, and she loved her sister, and she would come to adore Harry as much as Dudley. He would be as safe as she could make his life, even without magic.

She was an Evans woman, and Evans’ were strong ladies, always. For dear Lily, and for poor Harry, she would do this, and do it _right._ It was what Lily would want, and what any orphaned child deserved.

**-LMDDF-**

As the years passed, she _did_ find a balance. (And even if magic made Vernon so much more uncomfortable than Petunia felt was reasonable, having grown up with a magic sister, so did her husband. It probably helped that Harry’s bouts of accidental magic happened most often when Vernon wasn’t home, but… well, Petunia was just glad her husband relented without much force. Waving her house-authority over the stubborn man was both tiresome and annoying, though entirely possible.)

Vernon accepted quickly that he had a second son, especially after he’d gotten up in the middle of the night just as often for an ill Harry as for an equally-ill Dudley; the paperwork went through amazingly fast (as though, in fact, magic were involved); and Dudley, 15 months old and growing, was even quicker to forget that, once, he’d had Mummy all to himself. Harry grew alongside his cousin, and both boys learned to walk around the same time, pushing each other to go further and further. Eventually, she split their cribs up into the two rooms, choosing to give each growing toddler his own space to learn how to independently explore.

From the minute they could understand, she pressed into both her brave nephew and her more-timid son that – she didn’t care what they were wearing, or saying, or offering – neither of them were to trust strangers. If they got lost, they were to stay where they were, and she would find them. She impressed as much as one can on a four-year-old that the world is dangerous, without actually terrifying them, and could only hope for the best. (Her greatest difficulties came in the form of those few and far between, dressed just a _little off,_ who would catch Harry’s eye, and wink to him, or bow to him, or try to shake his hand. Even so, she knew she’d taught him well when, every time, he’d duck behind her, and watch them with careful eyes, thanking them if they were nice, but otherwise suitably wary.)

When both asked why Harry was different, unwilling to ostracize him from Dudley in the same fashion that Lily had fallen away from her, when their parents recognized early that there was something _different_ about their youngest, Petunia and Vernon pretended magic didn’t exist. (Vernon in particular, was pleased with this; she wondered if he would ever be comfortable with the reality of his nephew, and hated that the answer might be ‘never’.) She informed both boys that Harry’s parents, sadly, had died in a car crash (all the while promising to tell them about magic when he did something absolutely _unavoidably_ odd. She wasn’t going to lie out-right to bright young boys who could _understand,_ even if fibbing to small toddlers was acceptable). She made no bones about treating them the same, and when the subject of blood came up, ignored it – thanking God all the while that they were too young to yet have the rebellious ‘You’re not my real Mum/brother’ phase.

They both went to the same preschool, and Petunia cried quietly for both of them, when their absence made her house into a quiet museum. Vernon brought home wages, and Petunia easily cooked for four instead of three (and Harry’s appetite rivaled Dudley’s, active as the two made each other, running around together). Harry took to wearing shoes with aplomb, and it was he who got treats for not kicking and screaming, in the hopes that Dudley would take the hint. It was Dudley who learned how to bike, and whose delighted cries spurred his awkward cousin – who tried valiantly, but whose balance seemed geared to ride an entirely different vehicle – into growing proficient, at long last. Vernon gave laughing piggy back rides to both boys at once, until the day he tripped and sprained his ankle; then, he was very firm about the one-at-a-time rule. They all enjoyed regular outings to the local park at least twice a month, as the boys exhausted themselves on the jungle gym and swing set.

The older they grew, in fact, as long as no one focused _too_ hard on Harry’s looks (out of place against what both Dudley and Vernon sported, and only _vaguely_ reminiscent of Petunia, herself) he was easily and often mistaken for Dudley’s fraternal twin; Petunia let it happen. All the better to throw off anyone who might, somehow, make it passed the magical protection she knew next to nothing about.

Harry was, truly, her second son, and she would protect him just as fiercely as that.

**-LMDDF-**

When Harry and Dudley were five, and newly-attending nursery school, again there was a knock on the door.

Again, the man behind it was Albus Dumbledore, though this time he looked composed and warm, no longer burdened by the war or inevitable deaths. He still had a cane with him, but, as he had when she was small, held it merely as an accessory and not a literal crutch.

“May I come in, Petunia?”

She frowned, concerned about what would drive him to visit her when (as far as she knew) there were still renegades out there, searching out her nephew. Wouldn’t it put a mark on her home? She quickly waved him in, and pulled out an extra cup for the tea she’d just prepared. She was determined not to fall apart on him this time, and be a _proper_ hostess.

Once the refreshments had been laid out, mild conversation had, and tea plates emptied, Albus turned serious eyes to Petunia. “I am afraid, my dear, that there is one more thing which must be done to see to Harry’s safety.”

“And, again, I assume, I must be the one to do it?”

“On the contrary, this time it requires the participation of you, your husband, and even your son.”

Petunia bristled, wary. Magic had made Lily happy, yes, and essentially given Dudley a brother, whom he loved dearly…. But it had been the cause of the elder Evans’ deaths, as well as the Potters’. It had been what orphaned Harry, and what made Petunia worry every night that something she couldn’t control might happen to him. It drove an entire people to despise those ‘lesser than’ them, far enough to start a war over it. Magic had done her family, as far as Petunia was concerned, far more harm than good.

If the Headmaster wanted to drag her _son and husband_ into this mess, he’d better have more than just _good_ reasoning for it!

“There is a prophecy surrounding Harry; that is why he was initially targeted, though Voldemort only had the first half, and not the whole. I have been studying it – prophecies, even in our world, are notorious for their clearer-in-hindsight nature – and certain things have come to light to lead me here, today. It is this prophecy which led me before, and still leads me, to believe that the Dark Wizard in question is not yet dead and gone. The point, however, is this: Harry and Lord Voldemort are inexorably bound, and clearly are meant to act as foils to one another.

“Both were orphaned young. Both are half-bloods, though very few know this. Both were saved from death by the actions of their mother. Both, I suspect, once Harry grows up a little, even bear a striking physical resemblance to one another. But there is one thing that could throw all of the symmetry off; magic is a fickle thing, sometimes, and I fear – in a situation so delicate as this – that this might be the difference which would tip the scales in Voldemort’s favor…”

He trailed, off, pensive and troubled. His frown was deep, and even as she watched, a burden once more settled on his shoulders. She wondered, a touch uncharitably, if there were no others to help the man with all of his prophecy-based plotting because he was pushing them all away. It seemed like something he would do, leaving himself as the ultimate chess master, especially considering he’d told her nothing of this prophecy _before,_  when even then it had been what _caused_ all of this. He had that kind of air that Vernon’s mother had, before her death, of one who loves to be in charge _._

“Forgive me, Petunia. I must ask you and your family to ostracize Harry. He _must_ feel, when the time comes, that Hogwarts is his true home – just as Voldemort, whom I recall in his own boyhood, obviously felt. Without that, Harry may not care enough about what happens in our world to be the One who is destined to save it. He may still feel connections to this world, and seek escape from the Darkness that will come after him by hiding here.”

Slowly, Petunia breathed in on a count to three, and out to the same. She did so until the red-rage edging her vision flagged.

Then, in a voice more snarl and anger than he’d likely expected, she snapped, “ _You_ gave him to me to raise. _You_ shoved him into my family, and left us alone to stew. I took him in, and now I have raised him alongside my own until he _is_ as my own! I love Harry Potter, and he is mine! You will _not_ ask me to harm that child just because you fear he will not be _good_ enough, _noble_ enough, to do even more than his mother did! If he, one day in the _far future_ mind you, doesn’t want to die for _thousands_ of people on an _assumption_ you have, then I don’t see why he should.

“Remember, he will still be a child when he gets to your world! You will have him for all but the summers, and barest bits of winter, for _seven years…._ And you are telling me that, in that time, you don’t think he will come to _love_ magic and that world just as much as Lily did? So much so that she died wrapped in its secrets, strangled by its war, and surrounded by its prejudices?!

“She didn’t come back, you know? When the Mark was hung above our parent’s house, and they lie dead and cold in the morgue, confusing the Muggle medical examiners. She was too busy fighting your war. She only just barely got to the funeral, because she had to work so hard to escape detection. More than that, though, even when she wasn’t part of the war, it was so hard to connect with her. I understand that wizarding homes don’t have electricity, but somehow it began to escape her that – if she just walked a couple of houses, to the nearest Muggle street – eventually she’d find a payphone, and I might actually have a _conversation_ with my sister. Instead, what I got, and got, and got, was letters, coming in slower and smaller all the time. When she died, I felt as though I barely knew her, for how much she was tied up in your world. Oh, she still loved us, and then me, always; however, we stopped being her priority the _moment_ that Potter man came around and showed her that she could live with him, and live in that world for good! And let me tell you, _we_ never had to neglect her, for that to come around.

“You would have my Harry the minute he stepped foot in your school! And if not then, than certainly once he fell in love! And you want me to _willingly_ do what _no_ mother would _ever_ consider doing to her own child, even so? Just on the _off chance_ he’d, what, _like us **better?!**_ ”

Petunia was breathing harshly by the end, again, the silence echoing in both of their ears in the wake of her tirade. Dumbledore looked, simultaneously, taken aback and sadly vindicated… as though he’d thought she’d fight him (of course, on this, she would!), and he’d come prepared to hear hell. Recalling that he had more at his disposal that she could ever fight, let alone understand, Petunia wilted a touch, but still hissed, “He is a good, caring boy. If he ever abandoned anyone, it would be for good reason. Besides, even if you can convince Vernon and I that this is the right thing to do – and good luck there, for Vernon cares about them both as strongly as I do, which is what _happens_ when one is charged with the happiness and welfare of a child, I hope you know – Dudley, too, has been raised well, and is in fact the more gentle of the two of them. He could no more harm or abandon his brother than he could raise a hand rightfully against his own bullies. At least Harry is around and determined enough, to know when and how to defend them both, as needs be.”

“I see. As you might say, then, Missus Dursley: Common sense dictates that he would be good because he doesn’t have it in him not to be?” He sounded, not as though he were speaking a sensible truth, but as though he were confirming that she maintained a crackpot theory, which was absolutely ridiculous!

“Just so, sir.” She made no effort to modulate the ice in her tone, still determined to be a civil, if clearly upset, hostess.

“Very well. I will leave you and your family to do what needs doing by the boy. Good day.”

“Good day,” she huffed, as she saw him out, and grunted at the closed door, “And good riddance, too.”

**-LMDDF-**

That night, under cover of the darkness provided by the Deluminator, Albus Dumbledore stood before the property of Number 4, Private Drive, and raised his wand. For hours he stood, carefully weaving a spell into and around the blood protections of the house, which directly affected the very minds of the residents within.

Illegal? Yes, though not on the scale of the Unforgivables (if only because it was ancient, and not well known).

Necessary? Well, it was long-known to him that magic often defied what his Muggle-raised students called common sense; why would, then, common sense work in tandem with magic? Also, he knew far more about this situation than a well-meaning but Muggle woman. This was, indeed, for the best.

He plucked up the seed of grief and resentment in Petunia against Lily – smoothed over, and nearly buried by the years – and coaxed it to grow. He pulled it up to shelter her thoughts of her nephew, and made the green of his eyes remind her even more fiercely of the unfairness of her sister leaving her for a world that she couldn’t follow into. He tugged at the affection for her boys, and split it evenly down the middle, ushering all of her affection to one end, leaving her son the sole recipient. He twisted the core of her homemaker self, and called more of that resentment – her _sister_ hadn’t had to work nearly as hard, to be a good wife to that _Potter,_ what with magic – such that it would only be fair that the child who made her work harder alleviate some of that stress.

He snatched up the unease that Vernon felt around magic, and blew strength into it, until the mere thought of _unnaturalness_ made the Muggle man shudder. His force of will here would likely be strong enough to sway his wife, even, over time. Here, too, Albus took the man’s paternal affection and spilt it as he had done with Petunia. All on its own, the man’s natural disdain for useless things, and freeloaders, attached to his altered perception of the boy, and to his memories of his brother- and sister-in-law. And unlike his compassionate son, this man had a backbone, and suspicion-high tendencies – these, Albus pointed loosely at the child who was trying to ‘steal’ Vernon’s son’s rightful place.

He teased out the place deep within a sleeping Dudley which liked to roughhouse with Harry, and caused it to blossom into something more intense. He punctured the timidness that had grown in the child – a likewise necessary kind of evil, because without a willingness to be around Harry, who was his defender, the poor child would of course need to protect himself. He found the natural sibling resentment that nestled in Dudley’s mind, and turned the brief bits of jealousy into fierce claims on his parents, and his things, and his right to the house that an interloping cousin shouldn’t be allowed to have.

Finally, he turned to Harry. Here, he paused.

He would have to be especially careful. He wouldn’t directly manipulate the boy, who was supposed to already be what was needed; Albus has no intention of playing with that kind of fire. Instead, he gently added a mild haze to the boy’s memories, and a slight blurring to how Muggles would perceive him. These coming weeks would be far more prominent than any instances of familial affection to the boy, and no Muggle passing by would see the effects of the unfortunate but necessary neglect and abuse his relatives were sure to develop, after tonight; that, hopefully, would be enough for this to work as intended. The boy _needed_ to love their world, and look to Albus for guidance.

Albus waited just long enough to hear the first sleepy, aggravated orders from Petunia – something about a cupboard, so he didn’t bother paying attention; housework was for house elves and magic and (those who lived like) Muggles – before leaving, reassured.

**-(whwcsg)-**

When Harry Potter was young, he had a vivid imagination.

He imagined that he lived in a loving family, and that he and his cousin actually got along. He imagined that he’d got presents for his birthday, and a room all of his own. He imagined that meal times weren’t filled with hard work and a half-empty belly.

More realistically, he imagined that the day his relatives took him in went something like this:

_One morning, with no warning, Aunt Petunia and a rolly-polly little Dudley were interrupted by a policeman at that door. He would apologize for their loss, like they did on the telly that Harry sometimes saw, and Aunt Petunia would fret and fear that something was wrong with Uncle Vernon._

_The policeman would, instead, speak of the horrible car accident that took the lives of her sister and brother-in-law, but spared the life of her nephew. She would scoff, and wonder if anyone else was available to take the child, because she had one of her own already, you see. The policeman would apologize again, sympathizing with the woman about having to take up such a burden as raising another child, and claim that there was no other family left. If she didn’t take him in, he would have to go to the orphanage._

_Here, Aunt Petunia would dither and wonder, and nearly agree – after all, she **was** busy with Dudley, and that was no lie. But Aunt Petunia did so like looking and being normal, and – as Harry had again seen on the telly – family was always supposed to take orphaned family in. The nice policeman would wonder what was wrong with Dudley, or Aunt Petunia, if she didn’t agree. Still, it was a very hard decision for Aunt Petunia: how would she ever make up for foisting this burden on her family, if only so they could be perfectly normal?_

_Dudley, in that exact moment, lets out a cry of loneliness – for there was, at that time, no Piers Polkiss to play with, and no other children his own age to torment – and Aunt Petunia would change her mind. It would be a burden to care for her nephew, of course, and Uncle Vernon might not be pleased, but he would be raised to help her around the house, so that he would make less a burden of himself, and the (likely) stupid brat of her sister’s would be a great distraction for her prefect baby boy to compare himself to._

_After this, she would agree to go to the hospital, where Harry himself lay, only injured with a thin scratch on his forehead. She would pick him up, and take him home, and place him for the first time in his cupboard, under the stairs, wherein he would make his very first spider friends. Dudley would put up a great fuss because, until Harry could walk, Aunt Petunia would have to split her time between them. Uncle Vernon would put up a greater fuss because no matter how old he got, Harry would be another mouth to feed on his already-tight wages._

_But Aunt Petunia would stand by her decision: she wanted someone for her Diddy-kins to be able to be better than in every way. She wanted someone who would be available to help around the house. And she wanted someone who Uncle Vernon could yell at to release steam when the bad days at work came, sparing both she and Dudley the indignity._

_Harry would grow up in the cupboard under the stairs to be that, and more. He would be the best boy he could try to be, but he would always be Dudley’s punching bag, and the Freak that kept the family from being absolutely perfectly normal, in spite of Aunt Petunia’s great efforts._

That is… that was the story Harry would imagine until he turned eleven.

When he turned eleven, the world of magic was opened up to him, in spite of his unwilling and unrelenting relatives. He found Diagon Alley, and got a wand and an amazing owl named Hedwig, and rode a magical train full of magical people all the way to a real-live castle.

It wasn’t until he woke up after a few nights there that he realized that his circumstances had changed on him. The way that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been given him was actually full of magic and Dark wizards and the end of a war! It was so much grander and important than a car crash, and deserved more than Aunt Petunia, home alone with Dudley, and a random policeman. And so he had to fit things in, to make it all work, of course, or it just wouldn’t feel right.

So now, he imagined, in far greater detail because it must be suitably grand and amazing, the day he was dropped off at his aunt and uncle’s. This version started, instead, like this:

_Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they didn’t hold with such nonsense…._


End file.
